


Sasquatch and Dimestore Glasses

by LaughableLament



Series: SPN Masquerade [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Sam Winchester, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: spn-masquerade, Dean in Glasses, Don't copy to another site, Frottage, Impala Sex, M/M, Manhandling, Praise Kink, Riding, SPN Masquerade Round 7, Smart Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: A fill in two parts.From Masquerade Round 7: Sam is the brains and Dean is the brawns of the operation right? But what they don't show often is how Dean can spend hours over a reading a book (in glasses, because YES) and Sam can hulk out max during hunts and save Dean. Both of the brothers get super turned on seeing these rarer sides of each other and Dean can't finish a book because Sam won't keep his hands off him and Sam won't even get to change his clothes before Dean is on him when he basically hulks out.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: SPN Masquerade [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011297
Comments: 22
Kudos: 98
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Fall 2020





	1. Sasquatch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ishura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishura/gifts).



> Cross-posted from [SPN Masquerade](https://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/12846.html?thread=4684078#t4684078).

Dean blinks—or, he tries to. Foghorn of pain sings out from his left cheek, eye swelled up and crusted shut. Wrists ache, tied behind him to the slats of a ladder-back chair. Ankles trussed up too.

He takes stock with his good eye. Dim in here, not too dark. Moonlight shines through slatted windows, shines on wards and sigils Sam would probably recognize. Some kind of barn or outbuilding, Dean figures. Standard issue cultist torture dungeon smells of blood and decay.

He’s pressed against a cool wall—that’s going for him. Wannabe Jim Jones’s goons won’t be able to get the drop on him again. Last thing he remembers is Sam yelling, “Watch your six!” before he spun, caught a fist in his peripheral right before he caught it upside the head.

Over his left shoulder—on his blind side, of course—three, maybe four voices at low volume crackle with tension. Dean’s minders. He’s touched.

“Go check it out!” Whispers carry.

 _Sam._ Dean flashes a grin. Starts wriggling in his bonds, teeth clenched against the chafing. Outside, sounds of a scuffle commence and it’s not long before Sam’s looming over him.

“There’s no time Sam,” Dean protests as Sam swings him away from the wall, “they took Marcie. I didn’t hear a car, so…”

“The altar, you think? That we saw in the woods?”

Dean nods. “Go. Leave me a knife, man. I’ll catch up.”

Sam lays the handle of his boot knife in Dean’s palm, blade toward the ceiling. “You’re sure.”

“I got this, dude. Get Marcie.”

Sam chews his lip, makes a dimple pop out, but he goes. Dean takes a breath. He’s gonna thank Sam good for this rescue, soon as they hit the car. He slices through the ropes holding his wrists, only nicks himself a little, and leans down to cut his feet free. One of his minders sounds like he’s waking up, so Dean ditches the tie-them-up plan and breaks for the woods. Cleans the blood off his face with his shirt tail on the run.

Torchlight. Dean slows his pace. Burnt-meat smoke and chanting choke the air. He circles; Sam’s out here somewhere. Someone’s sobbing, pleading—Marcie. And just as Dean’s closed in enough to see inside the torchlit clearing, one of the mooks on the dais crumples like a ragdoll. Screams like a little girl.

“It’s those hunters!” shouts a woman in a tall crown made of dead branches. “Find them!”

Two-dozen red-robed cultists scatter. Dean tucks himself small in the hollow of a rotted oak, counts on night-blindness and panic to hide him.

“You won’t escape me, girl!” a voice roars as Dean’s left alone, outside the circle.

He peeks around the tree; the clearing’s empty except for the crown-chick, the flashy young cult leader—Brother Shepherd, what a lame alias—Marcie, and four big goons, not including the one still hollering, clutching the crossbow bolt sticking out of his buttcheek.

Sam looms like a specter out of the forest. Drops Goon One—short guy, built like a stump—with a kick to the knee. Sam puts his dukes up, chin down. Hips sink and swivel. Knees bend. Breeze lifts Sam’s hair off his neck and ears; kid could be Conan the Barbarian, all sweaty and wind-blown and torchlit.

Goon Two adopts some kind of MMA stance, kicks at Sam while Goon Three circles, laughs like the Joker and strokes a long, matted beard. Goon Four holds back, brandishes a foot-long knife. Dean springs up, dashes toward Sam. Hundred yards, through obstacles, probably take twenty seconds.

Sammy’s a goddamned ninja. MMA-guy has moves, but no discipline. He strikes at Sam with fists and feet but Sam moves like water, ducks and deflects. Lands hits on the guy’s ribs, nose, and temple. Bearded Joker’s moving in, and Dean would worry but he knows all Sam’s tricks. MMA-guy lunges and Sam sidesteps, trips him, sends him sprawling into the bearded Joker and onto the wounded Goon One who starts wailing all over again.

Knife-man, he’s the dangerous one.

Ten seconds.

Dean ducks low branches and cuts the straightest path he can through the dense brush at the treeline. Marcie struggles in Brother Shepherd’s grip. Crown-chick chants, waves a vile-smelling censer around and draws patterns on Marcie’s white nightgown with the point of an ornate dagger.

Sam yanks a torch out of the ground. Swings in an arc, drives Knife-man back. Crown-chick breaks off chanting, spouts something in Latin and Sam’s torch flickers out.

_Son of a bitch._

But Sam’s got this. He spins the torch so its iron pole protects his forearm, at which point the head re-ignites, carves an arc of fire a foot or so off Sam’s elbow. Dean almost faceplants, watching Sam instead of where he’s going. Knife-man’s blade glints and flashes, clangs off Sam’s improvised shield. Sam picks his openings. Strikes at Knife-man’s sides and kidneys, stomps his foot.

Dean hits the clearing. Three seconds now. He breathes hard, races for the dais steps.

Shouting. He’s been spotted.

And Brother Shepherd makes a rookie evil overlord mistake, and points at him.

Marcie elbows her way free. Spins and knees her captor in the junk before she turns on the crown-chick and shoves her off the platform. Marcie scrambles down the other side, and Dean nods in respect as her white gown disappears into the woods.

“Sammy!”

Takes advantage of the chaos. Gets knife-man by the wrist and slams it into the stone altar. Probably breaks the guy’s hand as the knife goes clattering.

Dean pulls up, winded, next to Sam as the goons start gathering themselves. He eyes them. “You morons really want some more of this?” He glares. Sam’s insistence on non-lethal force has made this whole case a motherfucker.

Bearded Joker doesn’t seem to want to back down, but his buddies hold him off.

“Go for Marcie?” Sam asks.

“Yup. Probably twenty assholes out there still lookin’ for her.”

Sam jams his torch back in its hole. Stalks for the treeline like the Sasquatch he is. “Let’s roll.”

Dean swallows. Subtly adjusts his inseam and hustles after.

They move, swift and silent through the woods. Incapacitate the cultist assholes that come at them but ignore the ones who scurry away. Sam glimmers under the dappled moon, dangerous and gorgeous as a fairy king.

They get to where they left the cars just in time to see Marcie’s Honda peel out in a cloud of red gravel.

 _Good for her_. Dean grins. She is one tough cookie.

He touches Sam’s arm and they pause. Dean cocks his head and listens. Broken-branch sounds come up on their six. They meet eyes and Sam nods; both brothers slip around the car, crouch by the tires.

Six dumb sons of bitches—bearded Joker among them—break into the open.

“That’s their ride!” one genius observes.

“We’ll wait,” says another, and Sam and Dean share a look.

Footsteps approach and Dean psyches up.

“Hey!” It’s the bearded Joker again.

They come up swinging.

Sam breaks the guy’s nose with the heel of his hand. Dean Dukes-of-Hazzard slides across the hood and kicks a fool. Mooks converge. Sam edges toward Dean, and Dean does likewise, until they’re back-to-back in the middle of the road. Cultists run in, get decked, fall out, run in again.

“Damn these pricks are determined!” Dean pants. At his back, he can feel Sam duck and swing. Broad shoulders, narrow hips. Howls of pain when Sam connects.

Blind from his broken nose, the bearded Joker launches a haymaker. Dean sidesteps, uses the momentum to Irish whip the guy face-first toward a tree. He glimpses Sam. Chest heaving, sweat pouring. Sam leans back like he’s in the fucking Matrix, dodges a knife swipe. Dean applies a boot to that guy’s ass and sends him sprawling.

“Thanks,” Sam huffs.

They’re down to one shithead each—four of the six having fled. Dean’s gonna have a shiner and his ribs wail where he took a jab. Sam has cuts on his lip and eyebrow; trickling blood makes Dean rage.

Attackers circle. Dean flicks fingers, C’mon.

One feints a lunge, but the brothers don’t bite. The cultists hesitate, share a glance and turn and book it, scuttle off into the woods.

Sam’s shoulders heave. Sweat drenches his temples and makes his shirt cling. Cool breeze raises goosebumps on his neck. Dean tackles him, two-fist grip in his hair, bends him back over the trunk lid. Kisses, full of blood and grit. Sam fights, bites Dean’s lips. Big hands slide up, cradle and tilt his head as Sam drives his tongue in, licks behind Dean’s teeth. Dean rumbles, claws Sam’s belt, opens his fly and shoves his hand in. Groaning, Sam gets a firm hold around Dean and hoists him.

Dean clings. Shouldn’t let Sam get away with this, but the big ox swings him, pops the back passenger door and dumps Dean in. Dean gets him by the coat lapels and drags him down. Half making out, half wrestling match as Sam gets in Dean’s jeans, shoves them down around his hips.

Sam’s mouth seals around his cock and Dean almost shoots right there. Heat and wet and suction overwhelm him. Sam moves, expert with his hands and lips. Squeezing, scratching and tickling and licking. Sam swirls around Dean’s head, holds the base and licks the vein. Teasing. Tormenting. Sam strokes his belly, thighs, and hips. Pins Dean, dives and takes it all; spasming throat sends Dean incoherent.

Shivering. Chilly night rushes in as Sam stands, wriggles his pants down. Dean scoots across the backseat and makes room. Sam crawls in and shuts the world out.

They crash into each other, lips and teeth and tongues and hands. Windows fog up quick with heavy breath and sweat. Sam twists, tips them so Dean’s back presses the car door and Sam blankets him. Wraps their dicks in his fist and jerks, slippery with his spit.

Dean lets rip cuss words; Sam doesn’t let up. Calluses and knuckles ruin him. Coals burst into flames, in his belly, and he warns Sam, “Close, man.”

Sam jacks faster. Lights Dean’s nerves, overruns his walls. Dean locks up and yells, hears Sam right with him. Heat bursts between them, soaks Dean’s shirt and jeans as they roll together. Dean’s head bangs the window. Sam trembles. Stretched neck, flushed face. Catches Dean gawking. Wicked smile digs dimples deep. Sam knocks their foreheads, brushes his lips over Dean’s and retreats. Offers Dean a hand.

He lets Sam haul him upright. His wounds scream but his dick’s satisfied. Side-by-side, they catch their breath and pull their pants up. Dean touches the sticky fabric and winces.

“If you didn’t want come all over you, you could’ve waited,” Sam snarks.

“Says you,” Dean snorts. “You don’t know how hot you are, wreckin’ fools like that.”

Sam rolls eyes. Then, “Guess we better check up on Marcie, huh?”

“Yeah, probably,” Dean says. “But I gotta tell you, man, that chick don’t need us. We weren’t so much, ‘rescue party’ back there as ‘distraction.’”

Sam grins. “Right? She’s pretty badass.”

“And badass pretty, what a combo!” Dean checks his watch. “If she headed back to her house, she’s probably there by now.”

Sam nods.

“I’ll drive,” Dean says. “You call.”


	2. Dimestore Glasses

Sam wheels the old Aston Martin into the Bunker’s garage. He cracks his back when he climbs out, unloads the books he bought in Omaha and hangs the roadster’s keys on their peg.

“Dean?” No answer. No smells from the kitchen, no beer on the map table. Sam checks the time; Dean wouldn’t be asleep yet.

Sam grins. One of two places Dean could be, and either way…

He checks the showers first, if incidentally. No sound of water running as he passes by, which leaves…

Dean’s sprawled in their bed, shirtless in his ratty sweatpants, headphones on his ears and the dimestore reading glasses he bitches about relentlessly perched on his nose. Black horn rims, ninety-nine cents, off a spinning display. Sam bought them, carried them, bullied Dean into wearing them. He eyes Dean’s turntable: Jethro Tull. No wonder Dean didn’t hear him come in.

Dean’s so absorbed in his reading—some fantasy series, of all things, that Charlie turned him on to—he doesn’t spot Sam in the doorway immediately. Sam’s heart swells. Time was, he couldn’t imagine his brother not noticing approaching steps.

Sam takes him in. Muscles, freckles, tattoo. Dean’s hair flops soft to one side, missing its normal, deliberately casual spikes. His chest rises and falls as he breathes, and he laughs softly. He wets his lips, wide-eyed as he turns a page.

Dean’s gaze flicks up over his frames, and his smile breaks like morning. He slips the headphones down around his neck. “Hey! How was Oma—oof!”

Sam pounces. Dean’s book thumps the floor.

He fusses, “Easy, Ug the Caveman!” as Sam puts hands all over him.

He takes Dean’s headphones away and lays them on the ledge above the bed. Fights the knot in Dean’s drawstring while Dean squirms. Dean goes to take his glasses off, and Sam says, “Leave ’em on.”

“Oh my god, you perv,” but Dean’s tongue flashes and he puts the glasses back.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Sam mumbles, _finally_ getting Dean’s pants untied. “Nobody gets this side of you but me.” He hovers, stretches out above his brother and pets his chest. “You’re brilliant, Dean.”

“Sammy, come on.”

“I know,” Sam breathes in his ear, makes Dean shiver. “You like it when people underestimate you.” He nips the lobe and trails a kiss down Dean’s neck. “Tactical advantage.” Dean ripples under him, stiffens against Sam’s thigh. Sam skates his hand down Dean’s sternum, past his belly to his waistband. Feels Dean’s abs flex.

Dean tries to flip them; Sam counters. Scuffling. Wrecking the covers and tumbling empty beer cans off the nightstand. Sam comes up kneeling across Dean’s hips. Dean kicks and scraps but Sam gets his wrists down.

“I’ll kick your ass, man,” Dean warns.

Sam dives on him, noses up his neck. “You might,” he acknowledges. “You’re a better fighter, better hunter than anybody I know.”

“Damn rrgghh—” disintegrates into growling when Sam grinds, drags his jeans seam across Dean’s thin fleece. Blazing hard. Dean knuckles his way in, works Sam’s fly apart. Gets a hand around Sam and he sighs.

“You see people,” Sam says against Dean’s lips. “You listen.” Kissing then. Sam nibbles his mouth corners. Stubble scrapes and Dean two-hands Sam’s ass, rocks into him. “People talk to you and it’s like… you make them feel like they’re the only person in the world.”

Dean squirms. “Dude, what the fuck.”

Sam kisses Dean’s temple, right above his glasses. “God, especially kids.” Bares his teeth and scrapes Dean’s jaw, nudges his head back.

Dean’s struggles turn earnest. Sam eases him with a wet kiss to a nipple. Dean arches and hums and Sam smirks. He can almost make Dean come like this. Soft suction, tongue in a circle as a pebble rises. Tugging teeth. Soothing lips. Dean bucks, cusses, says his name. Obscene tented fabric bangs off Sam’s bare cock. He lets go of a wrist to thumb across Dean’s other nipple. Dean cradles him behind the head and mutters something about what Sam’s mouth is good for.

Sam bites him. Hard enough to make him yelp, mostly from surprise. Dean lunges and Sam surrenders, lets Dean roll him under. Spreads his legs so Dean can slot between.

“You know more lore,” Sam slides palms up and down Dean’s back, “than the next twenty hunters put together.”

“Sammy…” Dean tightens fists in his hair.

“You remember spells, sigils—for fuck’s sake Dad’s code signals… never had to be told twice.”

“Well when it’s life and death—”

“That’s my point.” Sam lays a hand on Dean’s face, thumbs his cheekbone. He can feel the tension in his brother’s neck. “How many people are alive right now? Safe, with the people they love, because of _you?_ Your knowledge, your quick thinking.”

Dean swallows; Adam’s apple dips and Sam cranes to kiss it.

“And you know me,” Sam whispers. Dean hovers like he’s stopped in time. Sam looks up, holds Dean’s eyes for a heartbeat, tries to say it all again with silence. Then he grins. “Maybe we should get me naked now.”

Dean blinks behind his glasses and a smirk that makes Sam’s dick twitch creeps across his lips. “Now you’re talkin’.” He hooks an eyebrow and skates his tongue along his teeth. “C’mon.” Sitting up, he drags Sam with him. Pushes Sam’s flannel off and descends on Sam’s neck. Sam feels cool plastic against his skin and Dean grumbles, “Motherfu—can I take these off now?”

“Will you wear them while I ride you?” Sam tips Dean’s chin, holds him so they’re face-to-face.

Leering. “Okay, nerd-perv.”

“Do I need to bring up the cowboy hat situation?”

Dean zips his lips and Sam kisses them.

In minutes, all their clothes are on the floor, joining most of the covers they kicked off earlier. Sam wrestles Dean to his back, pins him and breathes praise into his skin until he thrashes. They slide against each other. Kissing and pawing, sweating and leaking until Dean’s moans give way to grumbling:

“Coulda swore I heard somethin’ about ridin’ my dick.”

Sam eye-rolls his brother’s impatience but he gets the lube from the ledge. Dean sits up to meet him, holds Sam in his lap, center of the bed to open him. Takes revenge on Sam’s touchy-feely torment, teases and takes his time. Circles Sam’s rim, rubs his taint and scratches his balls. Sam drapes his arms over Dean’s shoulders. Rolls his head, his hips, his spine. Surges into Dean’s touches. Fingers breach him, stretch and fill him. Dean feels around inside until Sam’s pouring precome, shuddering, breaking goosebumps in waves. Dean leaves him grasping, empty—

“I _should_ make you get the fuckin’ cowboy hat,” Dean rumbles as he resettles his glasses. Flops back to the pillows with his hands tucked behind his head.

His attitude improves when Sam grabs him by the dick and kneels above him. “It’s not your turn, Dean.” Bratty. Dean’s cock pulses in his grip as he sinks, slips Dean’s head between his cheeks, swipes it in the excess slick. Dean growls; hips flex and Sam grins wicked. Lip in his teeth and low lids like he knows drives Dean crazy.

Dean pushes in as soon as Sam’s lined up. Easy. All that teasing. Sam tingles, takes Dean slow. Braces on Dean’s chest against the tremor in his thighs. “Ain’t gonna be long, man.” Dean gasps when Sam grits his teeth and falls, controlled, seats himself. They move. Dean lights Sam’s insides, bucks and bounces him. Sam’s nerves crackle and he grinds, out of his mind, searching for that sweet spark.

He slows down, snakes his back and watches Dean, neck stretched and jaws slack. He gleams. Sweat collects in his chest hair. Glasses on. Crow’s feet—no, _smile lines_ —around his eyes. “Touch me,” Sam breathes, “come in me.”

Dean shudders under him. “Sammy,” through gritted teeth. He dips in the near-puddle of Sam’s precome, slicks Sam’s shaft and Sam clenches. “Aw, fuck yeah, just like that.” Sam fucks Dean’s hand, his own ass, saws Dean in and out. Pleasure climbs up around his ears. He holds on, wants to see, has to see Dean come apart.

“Need you, Dean.”

Roaring. Dean arcs. Spears Sam and stutter-thrusts up in him. Jerks him, fucks him, drowns him and spurts in him. Sam lets go. Blows all over Dean. Blood in his ears and all his muscles locked. Squeezes, thrusting, cussing. Sam comes until he collapses. Hisses. Raw where Dean eases out of him. Dean pets circles on Sam’s back and rubs his nose in Sam’s hair. Sam grinds and quakes until he can’t anymore.

Side by side, once they’ve caught their breath, “You wanna tell me what the fuck brought that on?” Dean asks, lazy smile. “I ain’t complaining; I just…”

Sam shrugs. Turns on his side and scratches fingers through the drying mess on Dean’s chest. “Smart is sexy.”

Dean snorts, “You’re sexy.” Throws an elbow at Sam’s ribs.

Sam elbows back. “Is that… supposed to be some kind of a comeback?”

“Nah.” Dean pulls him in for a kiss. Smears his glasses all to hell but he doesn’t gripe for once. “Just how it is, man.”

**Author's Note:**

> When I set out to fill this (delicious, irresistible) prompt, I really thought the two scenarios would grow into each other. That... didn't so much happen. But I kind of liked them anyway, so here we are. ^_^
> 
> ([masquerade master post is here](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/635531316339884033/masquerade-round-7-master-list-big-love-to))


End file.
